


off-season

by sclerant (rufusrant)



Series: the hot mess [1]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, M/M, Modern AU, Parties, Slow Burn, art college student John, ooc probably, quirky teen romance drama AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-04 04:37:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20465141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufusrant/pseuds/sclerant
Summary: In the midst of a period where John expects nothing from the world and Paul expects so much more- cake, college and cover songs collide. And so do they.





	1. these types again

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally intended for mclennon bigbang. i failed to meet the deadline with a complete fic, so here it is as a serial. this is my leap of faith.
> 
> a little background: this is an AU, and the famous fete takes place when john and paul are 18 and 16 instead. it doesn't happen on july 6, (blasphemy, i know, forgive me), but in late august, just before john's due for first term at art college.
> 
> huge thank you to the dearest [casafrass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casafrass/pseuds/Casafrass) for being such a great beta and for being so patient with me. love you! <3 all other errors/inaccuracies are my own.

George moved into Paul’s room after they’d set up the account. The first night he’d smuggled a tripod off Louise and duct taped the phone into place because he’d left the holder that came with it behind. 

The video they shot was wobbly and they’d had to replay two whole verses. It’d gotten over 50 views after they sent the link to everyone they knew, and the next day Paul takes the biscuits from George’s lap as he tunes his guitar. 

“We need more social media.”

“What?”

“Y’know, Instagram, Twitter,” said Paul, rolling his eyes. “If we actually want a chance at this, y’know?”

George doesn’t care. His arms dangle over the round hulk of guitar for the stolen biscuits. “No.” 

“We need to be easy,” Paul says, stepping back further. The look on George’s face is fun. “Easy to find, to reach-”

“Reach?”

“Why are ya a parrot?” Paul laughs. 

“Give those back.”

“Don’t you _ want _ comments, Geo?”

George blinks. His fingers curl back to grip the neck of his guitar. “Wouldn’t mind.”

“Cut the shit.”

“Fine, Paul. I live fer comments. I love validation so so so so much I get _ off _ on it-”

Thus the Instagram page was born. Paul followed every musician he had a vague idea of covering and select friends. It would be _ so _ intriguing once they hit big. 

~

“Bob Dylan.”

“Bob Dylan?”

“I like him,” George takes the phone from Paul and taps the Explore tab. 

“You reckon we should cover ‘im?”

George simply grins. He’s visibly tired. It’s a rainy night; the sky is grey-glow with thunder and they’re barely half through their gloomy rendition of _ Heartbreak Hotel _. Paul leans over to peer at the time. 

“I’m goin’ to sleep,” says Paul. He crawls towards his bed. “Charge my phone, yeah?”

“You’re at ninety-nine.”

Paul chucks his bolster at George and misses.

~

The next afternoon, George tears the tape off the tripod and fastened the holder. _ Heartbreak Hotel _ had been perfected in their first take. Ivan had written _ super guys!!!!!!!!! _with heart eyes. Paul brings George two boxes of biscuits and lets him pick the next song. 

“I don’t actually, um, get off,” George mutters through a mouthful of crumbs. “On validation.”

Paul pretend-quirks an eyebrow. George looks away, cheeks pink. 

“Can we do one of Dylan’s?”

“Course. Which one?”

George takes Paul’s phone and pulls up a video that zooms in on Dylan’s face, singing a number with swoony backgrounds. “_ One Too Many Mornings _,” George whispers. Then he leans over Paul’s lap.

“Ay, what-”

“Gettin’ my book,” His fingers reach for his bag, discarded against the bottom drawer of Paul’s dresser. “Jus’ listen to it.”

Paul scoots away from George’s knife-knees and props himself against his bed. He puts the phone against his ear to catch the lyrics. Dylan starts a verse about dogs when the Instagram_ ding _ startles him. Then another.

Paul turns. George’s still combing through his bag. Paul makes a mental fist, thumb tucked in, waits for the song to end. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” George grumbles. He snatches up his bag. “Gimme a sec.” 

“Watch out for traffic.”

George slams the door shut. Paul listens for his running to fade, and opens Instagram. He refreshes the page, holds his breath, and then slumps it out when he sees that it’s just a DM --

** _ivanthevaughanible:_ ** hey paul! or george

amazing cover!!

Paul’s grimace lightens a little. 

** _machazza:_ ** thanks m8, glad ya like it -P

Paul goes to open YouTube again. Another banner pops up.

** _ivanthevaughanible:_ ** no, like really it’s AMAZING

is that u singing

** _machazza:_ ** yeah, geo had sore throat again ):

** _ivanthevaughanible:_ ** thats awesome

your singing i mean not geos throat

hope he feels better soon

** _machazza:_ ** thank you ((:

i hope so too. poor kid

** _ivanthevaughanible:_ ** alright i think i’ll get right to it

remember that bqnd im sometimes part of

*band

the quarrymen?

Paul quickly checks his texts with Ivan. He can’t find any mention of it. 

** _machazza:_ ** of course! what bout it

** _ivanthevaughanible: _ **well my friend john’s the leader and i thought

maybe i could take you two to meet him?

Paul lets out a yawn, rubs his eyes. 

** _ivanthevaughanible:_ ** i think you’d hit it off. he's 18 but REALLY into the king too

like, he has us play his stuff as rehearsal 

** _machazza:_ ** aw sweet

** _ivanthevaughanible:_ ** yeah!! 

they're playing st pete this sat, rose garden fete 

how bout it? you and geo?

_ “George!” _ Mike shouts from downstairs. “Yer sister’s here!”

“He’s out!” Paul shouts back. 

“What?” Louise shouts.

_ “He’s! Out!” _ Paul pushes the door open _ . _“He went to get somethin’!”

“_ What _?”

“He left it,” Paul turns back to his phone. St Peter’s was in Woolton, whole bus ride away, and Saturday he’d planned to sleep in. Maybe shove his hand in his pants too, but mostly sleep in. He and Dot had stopped texting weeks ago. 

He thinks hard. He’d been dying for the weekend. But Elvis people nowadays were rarer than chicken teeth, forget about Elvis people near _his_ age. 

And he could always use another person. 

** _machazza_ ** _ : _ maybe?? what’s he like

“Paul, could you ring him up?” Louise shouts. “He’s got my number blocked.”

“Why the hell is your number blocked?” Paul starts a call. It goes straight to George’s voicemail. Paul curses him and grabs the jacket from his bed.

“I’ll go look for him!” he shouts downstairs. “Mike! You’re in charge! Heat up dinner!”

Paul finds his earbuds and runs downstairs, out the door and round for his bicycle. He’s barely shunted it out the driveway when George, of all miracles, guides his own crooked bike down the road. His face is slick with sweat. 

“Hey,” George says in the most normal-sounding tone.

_ “Jesus, _ Geo. Were you in an accident?” 

“No. I just… hit a flat,” he kicks his front tyre, limp as a powder doughnut. Paul heaves a sigh of relief. Then he turns back to the front door. Mike has made tea. 

~

When Da comes back he wolfs down whatever’s left on the table. George sends Paul a link to an audio of the Dylan song, and _ 8? _

_ 8.10, _ Paul prepares to text back, but stops himself. In a flurry he opens the DM with Ivan.

** _ivanthevaughanible: _ **where to start

john is………….a great fella

if i do say so meself

uhhhh his birthday is in oct

9 oct

so like he’s 17 half ish

he’s starting at lca??? art college? ye

hey i had an IDEA you should audition!!!! he’s always up for that

oh and he likes writing songs too

or liked

hasn’t been doing it much lately :(

Paul rereads it over and over. 

~

John strikes the match once, twice, lights his cig. He smokes slowly, angrily, chest filling with hot white and bullshit from the bio textbook. He opens a window and hovers the butt over Mimi’s fruit trellis before crushing it in the bin.

A full cucumber sandwich lands smack on the ash, followed by cherry tomatoes. Mimi had cut them into flowers tonight, so he’d saved a few to feel less bad. 

Before breakfast he’d screamed at Mimi, some of the neighbours, and everyone in the Quarrymen group chat. Fuck off, he whispers to his room ceiling. If Julia was listening somehow he half-hoped she’d heard.

Tim emerges from behind John’s bed just then; paws the smoky bin. John sniffs. He scoops Tim up and locks them both in the bath. On cue, Tim leaps into the tub so John can sink to the tiles spread-legged, freely. He claws through streams of tears, biting down on gasps.

“John?” Mimi’s slippers thump down the hall. He’s low enough to see her embroidered toes. “Are you alright?”

“Been sick,” he swallows quickly to make a cough. He swallows too fast and the cough is nearly a heave for real. “Don’t go in my room.”

“Wasn’t going to.”

Tim yawns loudly. 

“Is that— are you bathing Tim again?”

“No,” John gets up and rinses his mouth with the tap. “Can ya make me a cup?”

“Are you going out later?”

“Oh, I’ll call them off, don’t sweat it.” 

Mimi sighs. “You’d better go to bed.”

“Yeah,” John lets the tap run. He switches it off, shuts his eyes and counts. He hears Mimi’s slippers move to the end of the hall, and spits at the mirror. If he squints hard enough the drops that fall could be shards. Tim slips off the tub’s edge and leans against his leg. 

“Fuck off,” says John. 

~

The Quarrymen group chat explodes. John’s _ sorry i don’t think i can _ apparently made some visibly invisible smirk to it. Pete sends angry faces. Ivan’s typing ellipsis hovers for God-knows-how-long before it turns into --

**Ivanhoe:** what abt tmr?

**Lemonade:** im s i c k

oh so sick

**Ivanhoe: **yes but can you play tmr??????

**Lemonade:** no ivan cant u read

**Shotthru the heart:** **but the fete**

**Lemonade: **is like 3 days away i got thsi

@ivan calm ur tits pls u arent even playing

**Ivanhoe: **:(((((((

can i bring a friend to fete

**Shotthru the heart: **G A S P you have friends????

**Ivanhoe: **sTFU

**Lemonade:** is she pretty

**Ivanhoe: **not she

**Shotthru the heart: **oooooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOO

**Ivanhoe: **HES MY MATE FROM SCH

we share a birthday :D

John rolls his eyes.

**Shotthru the heart: **hey that's actually cool

**Lemonade:** why

Ivan proceeds to spend his life typing. John switches his phone off and sighs his way to the kitchen. Mimi’s back is sweaty through the window, crouched at the fruit trellis. His mug of tea is warm next to her handbag, pristine and pure on the table. 

John smiles as he sips, eyes on the back of her head. His hand unclasps the catch of her handbag and fishes out her wallet. The mug is dumped in the sink. John takes his glasses off and runs out the door.

~ 

John’s phone chimes while he’s counting the notes behind the beer shack. Ivan’s sent a private message.

**Ivanhoe: **believe it or not hes just as much of an elvis nut as yoU. dude even DRESSES like him

**Ivanhoe:** REALLY GOOD AT GUITAR. he runs this ig account of covers, wait

**_Ivanhoe _****sent a** **_link_**

**Ivanhoe:** k my bad he actually runs it with this junior of his but theyre both REALLY GOOD

John finds a small paper wedged deep inside one of the wallet’s card pockets. He sticks his phone in his armpit and nearly splits the thing apart with two thumbs.

He squints hard. _ Liver Cakes for All Occasions _ stares at him in huge, blue smudgy cursive. Who in their right mind would buy and EAT something called _ LIVER CAKE? _

What the fuck, Mimi. John crumples the scrap in his hand, and his brain lets out a squeak. He squats with his back to the wall and smooths the paper out on his thigh, rubbing it flat- and it tears right in half. 

John’s first instinct is to let one rip. _ One meltdown per day, _ says the proper grief handbook- a little tome full of shit. So he takes that and splits it too, imaginary hands sturdy like a strongman to a phonebook. John’s actual hands are clammy and shaking too much to risk even a shop with shoddy cameras. He selects the tape roll from the box at the stationery and forks out money at the counter. 

_ Liver Cakes fo r All Occasions _ stares up at him.

John’s phone chimes again as he slips the paper back into its pocket like it's porcelain antique. He slumps back to the beer shack, buys a can, and cusses at himself. 

~

John loses track of time. He walks around the park shiftily, as if here to menace children and poison the ducks. My mummy’s dead I can’t get it through my head. _ Fucking _ ducks. Bloody _ children _. 

Why would you do such horrid things? A cartoon telly cop with a paunch and an ugly stache digs into John. The baton on his belt hangs longer than the lump in his trousers. 

My mum’s DEAD. John jumps on the table. Maybe he has handcuffs on, but that’s besides the case. 

The telly cop gasps and cowers like Mimi after looking through the photo albums. Except he doesn’t sob. John, still up on his mental table, dances the Jailhouse Rock with a wicked smile, huge and bright even as he steps right into the duck pond. 

Mendips is still dark when John slips through the front door, soaked through his skin. Mimi’s still in the garden. He puts her wallet out to dry on his windowsill and locks the room door. He flash-dips himself in the tub. If Julia _ was _ watching somehow he hoped she hadn’t noticed. The knocks on the door make him jump. 

“John?” Mimi. “How’re you feeling?”

“Peachy.” John grabs his towel. 

“Oh, good,” a pause. “And did you happen to see my wallet?”

FUCKING HELL. 

“Have you uh, checked yer room?”

“_ Yes _,” Mimi’s pauses are going to give John a premature shock attack. She sighs. “I suppose I’ve left it at the grocer’s—“

“Go get it then! I’ll hold the fort.” John crosses his fingers till they hurt. 

“You reckon they would’ve rung me up like last time,” she says, but John hears her slippers thumping away. He lets out all the air in his chest, and sinks up to his nose under the water. 

~

On Saturday Paul strapped his guitar to his back and bussed to Woolton. Only when he’s halfway there does he remember that he’s _ totally _ neglected George in the whole thing. He damn near jumps off the deck before sucking it in, and whispers a prayer or three for George to _ not _ finally hop on the Instagram train today. 

He reaches early. St Peter’s is crowded and packed full of colour. Paul had wanted to meet up before the Quarrymen set, but Ivan hadn’t read his texts. He huffs as he pulls Ivan’s number up to call, and then in one in a million catches sight of him in the crowd. He’s running- no, _ squirming _as fast as the crowd will allow, far far away.

Paul pulls his guitar tighter and wades his way through. _ Sorrysorrybloodyhellsorry _he spouts, in case the frets catch someone in the ears. They don’t, maybe they do, but all that matters is that he’s sprung from the crowd at last. In front of the Scout hut he grabs Ivan from behind. 

“Jesus_ Christ!” _

“ ’m flattered,” Paul pants. 

“No, that’s not...” Ivan is flushed. “We’ve got a- a problem.”

“With what?”

“Well-”

“He’s not pickin’ up,” shouts a voice inside the hut. 

“What the fuck,” shouts another. “We’re on in _ how many?” _

“Call Mimi or somethin’!” a blond yells. Paul stares. He’s holding a washboard. 

~

John slipped the Liver Cakes paper into his jacket before returning Mimi’s wallet. It looked forgotten anyway. And a tenner (just in case), but he still swiped the beers off the rack and ran. Bless the beer shack and their lack of working cameras. And employees who gave a fuck!

John’s hanging far away from the shack. His feet are light; he’s the king, no offence, Elvis. Julia is playing her banjo in the back of his head. He inches closer, lurches forward to hear her better, but she seems to be stepping back. 

“I’ve come to see you,” he whispers reverently. “I should be elsewhere butI’vecometoseeyou-” 

John hiccups hard and headbutts a brick wall. It rained last night and his back digs a John-shaped hole in the mud. It smells like shit and it is perfect. The sun is in his eyes and the Quarrymen are going to be heavenly_ pissed _, but it is PERFECT. John closes his eyes and sighs contentedly. 

“Are you dead?”

John’s eyes fly open. The sun glares at him from above, along with a bloke. The dark shape of one, at least. 

“Yes,” says John. “Fuck off.”

The bloke’s face moves closer- and he _ reeks _ of beer. John however is still preoccupied with the bloke’s HUGE nose. And the amount of rings on his fingers. The jewels catch the light and screw his eyes near shut.

“You too, huh?”

The beer, the beer. “So?”

“Yer head,” the bloke taps a HUGE ringed finger on his own forehead. “ ‘s bloody.”

“Fantastic.”

The bloke blinks. John wonders if the bloke’s going to put his ringed fist in said bloody head. He’d have a hell of a story if he wound up having karat scars. He’s almost grinning when the bloke slowly brings his hand near- but nothing happens. John makes a confused noise. 

“Take my…. hand,” the bloke slurs. 

“My whole life too,” John instinctively replies.

“Wh- what?”

John chuckles. He isn’t sure anymore. Maybe trying to scare this nice bloke, even, but this one is too fucking_ sloshed _ to be scared. As soon as John brushes their fingers the bloke turns and hacks up a white stream of thin slime at the foot of the wall. 

~

Hours pass. Paul strums idly, making up words. Ivan and Pete the washboard-ist ring up every single member of the Quarrymen. No one’s seen John at all. 

Nigel, the manager, lies on the floor with a flyer for the fete over his face. They’d had to call off their set off. Paul considers offering himself to stand in for John, but it doesn’t seem proper. His shoulders are getting cramped in his jacket. 

“Aw fuck,” Ivan groans as Pete’s washboard hits the floor. “I can’t believe he’s done this.”

Paul hides a chuckle.

“Ivan, I hate to say I told you so, but _ I told ya so, _” guitarist Eric says, defeatedly. “After all the… you know, we can’t jus' expect him ta-“

“I _ told _ him I was bringin’ this one!” Ivan flings his hand in Paul’s direction. “And he said fine!”

Nigel’s flyer crinkles as he props himself against a table leg. “_ John’s _ not fine, mate.” He looks Paul up and down. “How old are ya?”

“Sixteen.”

“Not with _ that _ face you aren’t.”

Paul blinks. 

“Do you, uh, shave?”

Paul thinks about the time he layered his chin in shaving cream like Da showed him, and cleared it off with the razor. He’d taken out a strip of skin on the bottom side of his chin and it took two plasters to cover. 

“Yes?”

“We share a birthday,” Ivan cuts in. “The _ actual _ day and year, like. Sixteen, I vouch.”

“Okay, ‘kay,” Nigel laughs. The pits of his shirt are dark with sweat. “Right.”

Paul turns to the tin clock near the ceiling. His phone buzzes again against his leg. 

_ Saturday, 17.17 _

**Mcgear:** whr u put egg mayo

_ Saturday, 17.52 _

**Mcgear: **hello???????????

DA’S ASKING TOO ASDFGAGHLK

_ Saturday, 18.29 _

**Mcgear:** nvm we went to the shop

we ate ALL the tea

_ Saturday, 18.45 _

**Mcgear: **

....................../´¯/) 

....................,/¯../ 

.................../..../ 

............./´¯/'...'/´¯¯`·¸ 

........../'/.../..../......./¨¯\ 

........('(...´...´.... ¯~/'...') 

.........\\.................'...../ 

..........''...\\.......... _.·´ 

............\\..............( 

..............\\.............\\...

“Ivan,” Paul stands, swinging his guitar back. “I gotta go.”

~

Paul comes home to Mike watching cartoons on the telly. All the lights are off. 

“Table,” Mike says without looking up. 

“Thanks-“

“Pick up yer phone next time.”

“It was off.” Paul collects the plate of sandwiches from the table. His ringtone, the Galileo verse from Bohemian Rhapsody, sounds out right then.

“Hah,” says Mike. 

It’s Ivan. Paul answers as he escapes upstairs. 

_ “YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE THIS,” _ Ivan hollers.

“What?” Paul yawns. “What?”

“Like, 5 minutes after ya went-”

“GEORGE CALLED,” Mike yells from downstairs. 

“Right,” Paul yells back. “Sorry, what-”

“...the pair of ‘em show up and they’re all pissed an’-”

“HE SAID CALL BACK,” Mike continues. "GIT."

_ “Mike,” _ Paul hears Da warn, _ “Inside voice!-” _ and slams the door shut.

“Sorry, sorry,” he sighs. “Can ya take it from the top?”

For the first time, he realises the noise on Ivan’s side too- people shouting, shuffling. Ivan makes a groan. “John’s turned up.”

“Oh?”

“Aye. He’s got a bloody head. And he’s _ pissed.” _

“Oh, wow,” Paul feels something click inside of him. “He was in a fight?”

“Uh..... no,” Ivan stops after this. Shouts something he can’t make out. This goes on for a long while, and Paul realises then he’s hunched his back against the door. 

“Hello?-”

“So,” Ivan says immediately. “Some drunk’s come with him. Aaaaaaan’ he’s just sicked all over Nigel-”

Paul chuckles. Ivan does too; at least Paul thinks so, and the noise drowns him out fast in the background. He usually wouldn’t care and he _ knows _ this, but he presses his phone harder to his ear, trying to pick up on it. There was very obviously a fight, a drunk cry, and somehow he dug it. 

~

Mimi slicing through lettuce fills the entire kitchen. The ice pack between John’s hand and temple is now water. Mimi is going off about breaking your promises and demon drink and_ bla bla bla but I’m still making yer dinner so- _

The bloke with the rings had brought him back. Either that or John had brought _ him _ to St Pete and unleashed drunk blitz all over everyone. He’d been a fun one, asking if John preferred Marvel or DC and proclaiming that he hated both so it didn’t matter what John chose. His leather jacket was shabby and his hair had a small patch of grey. He hadn’t given a shit about hacking up in front of people, and it makes a smirk on John’s face. What a _ dude. _

“An’ you’re not listening,” Mimi sighs, turning off the stove. Her hands go on her hips. 

John shrugs.

“You’re really angry, aren’t you.”

John squints at her on purpose. 

“I am, too,” Mimi reaches for the handle, but drops her hand and head down. John feels something grow tight in his stomach. “You’re not the only one.”

Of course he isn’t. He knows what she means, and her tone is breaking. It softens yet steels itself. 

Mimi opens the silverware drawer weakly. Everything inside rattles. “You got a new member?”

“Huh?”

“The boy with the rings.”

“Uh, no. I dunno him.”

“Good,” Mimi says infuriatingly. After dinner she smears him with petroleum jelly, tacks down a plaster on the bump. John resembles a failed unicorn who’d been sacked from his gig at the circus because he’d sawed his own horn off. He bounds off the chair once Mimi packs the gauze back in the kit. 

“Received your schedule yet?” Mimi asks. 

“No,” John groans. “It hasn’t even started.”

“When will you get it?”

“Actual day. Can I go now?”

Mimi shuts the kit and waves him away. John walks to his room quickly, red as an embarrassment. He locks his room door and stares at the ceiling for a long while. 

~

The next day passes like no trouble at all. But John has plenty troubles. He leaves everyone on read in the Quarrymen group chat for mayhaps an hour before sending out the perfunctory _im ok thanks _and _im_ _sorry_ before switching his notifs off. He shuffles everything on Spotify, but skips every single song. John opens his messages reluctantly. 

**Ivanhoe:** thank jfc

**Nigel Walley:** nO SWEARING THIS IS A CHRISTIAN SERVER

**Ivanhoe:** i- i didn’t????

anyway get well soon jawn ,,,,, we miss u

**Shotthru the heart: **^

all is forgive

walley on the other hand, is on the fence bc his jacket

**Hanton12:** yo @lemon mum made angel food i can bring some if u want 

THE JACKET

hAH

**Nigel Walley:** fuck off mate i loved that jacket ok

**Shotthru the heart: **O_O

**Hanton12:** its fuckign ugly nigel

**Nigel Walley: **yeah but i LOVED it

**Ivanhoe: **uwu

**Shotthru the heart: **still a better love story than twilight

**Ivanhoe:** who was that guy tho

aNGEL FOOD im comin over 

**Shotthru the heart: **mE TOO 

@ivan i broke my bike can you pick me up

**Ivanhoe:** heck yeah there in 5

**Nigel Walley: **nO SWEARING 

YOURE ON THIN FUCKING ICE

**Hanton12: ** _ (¬_¬) _

John rolls his eyes. Tim lies down in front of his schoolbag, stretching. 

**Lemonade: **mimis out at 7

~

Paul phones George past midnight while raiding the fridge. 

“What,” George yawns. “If you don’t start speakin’ in five seconds I‘m going back to sleep. I swear.”

“Ye answered,” Paul whispers. He eats cheddar out of the packet. 

“Five. Four. Three-”

“What time do you end?”

“How the fuck should I know? Schedule’s only out when I get there.”

“D’you wanna go, y’know, load up?” Paul stuffs the packet back in the fridge. “For Dylan.”

“Fuck yeah.”

“Ha,” Paul fake chuckles. “Stop sayin’ fuck, Geo. Ghastly.”

“Fuck,” says George. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-”

~

“Fuck off.”

“Language,” tuts Mimi. Her eyes are fixed on the fresh daisy walls of the goddamn place. “You’ve met the head before, you’re just gettin’ your schedule from him.”

“Ya see this?” John brandishes a pen from the hanging case on his bag. “I’d rather have someone stick this up my-”

“John,” Mimi shushes, steers them both around as if it blocks every other person on campus out. “What’s wrong?”

“Why do I have to get my sched from _ him? _ He hates me.”

“Now why d’you think that?”

“He’s_ going _ to hate me. His emails are in this _ horrible _ pity tone, remember? I can feel it.”

“Then you can also feel this,” Mimi grabs his shoulders. “Listen: it’s going to be okay. New beginnings are scary and you know this, but yet you’re _ here. _ It already counts, John.”

John bites his tongue. His eyes feel too big for their sockets. 

“I’m… I’ll come pick you up. If you want.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll message you if I can’t, alright?”

“Yeah.”

Mimi pecks his cheek swiftly. She moves him along by his shoulders. John follows the stream of backpacks and black cases into the building, fists deep and tight in his trouser pockets. He has a brief mental flash of the receptionists staring at them and his head plaster when he showed up at the office. They’d all click their stuffy tongues and go,_ oh, these types again? _ as they adjusted their cardies _ . _Show off their pearly whites and direct him to the dean. When he was done they’d push a little bowl of Mentos at him and tell him in too-knowing tones that he could take as many as he wanted. 

None of that happened. The receptionist is a young bloke in a black tie making a Photoshop spread on the computer. Next to him sits a bag of Haribo Starmix and a Manila folder with John’s name scrawled on top. John nearly smiles. His hand reaches for it. 

“Hold it, hold it,” the bloke says, eyes still on the comp. “Lennon?”

“Yeah.”

“When is your birthday?”

“Huh?”

The bloke nods at him. “To see if it’s really you. Protocol, ya get? To keep out the thieving.”

“Who the fuck would steal a school sched?” says John. “Shit, no, I meant-”

“When’s your birthday?” The bloke repeats.

“October 9.”

“ ‘s all yours.”

“Thanks sir.” John says, tongue-tied. 

“I’m no sir. ‘m just holdin’ the fort for Miss Rigby,” the bloke offers the Haribo bag out. “I’m Bill.”

“John.” He chooses an egg gummy. 

Bill smiles toothily. “Welcome to Liddypool College of Art.”


	2. last banana milk

The_ initiation _ is in a huge front foyer with a lot of noise and trashpop music from the speakers like the whole thing’s a dance. The seniors at the registration tables wave clipboards and phones with Google Sheets to direct people. John opens his email, double-checks his class, and squints around. 

The line for his class is the shortest. In front of him are two girls and two other boys clutching welcome packs with the school crest. He stands discreetly behind one of the blokes and starts digging through the pack. 

Then he stares. Blinks. The bloke in front of him has curly back-gelled hair, catching the light in a glass-glint that shines glaringly. John blinks again as he looks down, and it’s the same jacket. Same rings. 

_ Jesus Christ what were the fucking odds??? _

John feels his face grin up. He pulls up the Quarrymen chat. 

**Lemonade: **hEY GUESS WHO MY NEW CLASSMATR

An agonising two minutes pass. 

**Nigel Walley: **who

**Ivanhoe:** wHO

**Lemonade:** PUKE BOY

_ Nigel Walley is typing…… _

_ Nigel Walley is typing…… _

_ Nigel Walley is typing…… _

_ Nigel Walley is typing…… _

**Ivanhoe: **HOLY SHIT FOR REAL

WHATRE THE FUCKIN ODDS????

**Lemonade: **IKR

damnit walley do you have smthng you wanna say

_ Nigel Walley is typing…… _

_ Nigel Walley is typing…… _

**Ivanhoe:** wait how dyou KNOW its puke boy

**Nigel Walley: **can we not name him after what he did to me jacket pls

**Lemonade:** he's wearing the same thing from fete

tHE EXACT SAME THING

**Ivanhoe: **pics 

John switches on the camera and snaps a picture of the back of the bloke’s head. AND THE FLASH GOES OFF. His brain makes a fart noise. Some people turn, puzzled, but the actual bloke doesn’t seem to have even noticed _ at all _. John sends the photo to the group chat sharpish and swallows down a ball of air. 

**Ivanhoe: **yo your windows are rlly big 

**Shotthru the heart:** oOOO textig in class are we

what’re we looking at 

John’s eyes roll to the back of his head. The photo he’s sent is a bright white blur against the shine from the windows and the bloke’s hair. 

**Lemonade: **AFDGSKSKSSKSKSKLSK

WHY DOES GOD HATE ME 

**Nigel Walley: **i believe you 

XD

**Ivanhoe: **:0

**Shotthru the heart: **hAHHAHAHA

UR FLASH WENT OFF DIDNT IT

**Lemonade:** stfu

humans make mistakes ok

**Ivanhoe: **yknow what’s a REAL mistake? 

~~nigels jacket~~

**(** ** _Nigel Walley _ ** **is offline.)**

**Ivanhoe:** nO 

**Shotthru the heart: **shame on u ivan

**Ivanhoe: **NIGEL IM SORRY BOO

John checks the time. This time yesterday he’d been lying with half his body off the bed. It should feel like an improvement, but his head is croaking curse words at him. It’s going to be a long, fucking day-

“Hello? Next,” a thin hand waves a pen in John’s face. He shoves his phone into his pocket. 

“Sorry, sorry-”

~

John’s class is sat under a huge window blocked by a wall. There are more boys than girls and no one is talking to each other. Shoes are stared at, phones are stared at, and John curses because his battery is running low. He makes to text Mimi that he’ll get home himself when his phone buzzes-

**Ivanhoe:** ey 

hows it going

Ivan is going to bring up something he has no time for. So be it.

**Lemonade:** ok

phone's bout to die 

**Ivanhoe:** talk later then?? 

and

can u tell puke boy his rings are cool

**Lemonade:** wtf 

**Ivanhoe: **????

**Lemonade:** no no thats just… random as hell comin from you 

i dont even know his name 

even worse is that the dude saw me crack me head like eggs

**Ivanhoe: **oH right

**Lemonade:** yeah??????

how would YOU feel if some weird asshead came up to you and was all hEY YOURE MY CLASSM8 AND MY FRIENDS THINK YOU RINGS ARE COOL

“I’d feel pretty nice.”

John nearly drops his phone in terror. Standing next to him with hands in his jacket pockets is the one and only Puke Boy. He’s… oddly shorter than John remembers from fete day. Or in the light tricks of the sunny foyer. He immediately shuts off his phone.

“What’re you playin’ at?” John backs up. “Snoopin’ in like a _ snoop _-”

“M’bad,” the bloke chuckles deep, puts out two peace signs. There’s barely any light besides the overheads, but his rings still manage to glimmer. He’s very obviously trying to be friendly, but it makes John feel horribly red as a cherry. 

_ Do you remember me? Do you recognise me? Because I recognise you, _ John’s brain says to his mouth. Instead when his mouth opens, out comes:

“Are you, uh, drunk?”

The bloke blinks. Then he snorts. “Maybe.”

“Wow.”

He nods heartily. He most probably doesn’t remember and/or recognise John, which certainly helps steady his insides, thank you very much. 

“So… uh,” John slips his phone into his trousers. “I’m John, and… what did you say your name was?”

“Ringo Starkey.”

JESUS FUCKING CHRI-

“What the hell kind of name is that?”

“Me real name’s Richard.”

_ “Oh. _Okay. Sorry,” says John. “Because of-”

“Yeah,” he lifts his hand effortlessly smooth, like he’s a court lady waiting to be greeted. 

John stares. “You don’t look like a Ringo.”

“How does one _ look _ like a Ringo, Jonathan?”

“John. Just John.”

“Okay, Just John,” Ringo bumps his elbow with his own. “ ‘ello.”

~

Ivan is tapping away at his phone when Paul runs into the washroom. 

“Oh thank god you're still here,” Paul says, and plops himself on the edge of the sink. “Sorry. Had to play up the tummyache.”

“ ‘s cool,” Ivan nods. He produces a Tupperware out of nowhere. “Want some?”

“What-”

“From Colin’s mum.”

“...drums?”

“Bingo.”

“Thanks,” Paul pops the box open. “What is it?”

Ivan looks at him just then. “Did ya sleep?”

Paul shrugs in a way he knows is coy. It helps him not feel like dropping to the ground and dozing right there. “You givin’ me this whole thing?”

“Not the box,” Ivan resumes his texting. “You free today?”

“ ‘m free next week if that’s what ya want.”

“Next week! ‘s the first week back! You have a lot of work?”

“No, not that,” Paul says matter-of-factly. “I have a life too, y’know.”

Paul wishes it were true. Most days the channel and practices and George felt like the only exciting things ever. The whole highlight of his week had been getting five new comments on _ Heartbreak Hotel. _Two of them had been requests for Taylor Swift covers, but at least it meant they were good enough to be asked of something. 

When the classes move to the hall for a fire safety briefing Paul falls asleep right where he’s sitting. 

~

Inny had yet to get its own tuck shop. As far as Paul knew, no one, not even George, was complaining because sharing the common one with the art college kids was a treat for the eyes. 

Today George is complaining about his new class. “...after I_ said- _ no, I _ insisted _ I didn’t wanna sit near the window, he puts me near the _ fuckin’ _ window-” George stops to cough into his palm.

“Beat him up,” Paul deadpans. He selects one of the two banana milk cartons from the fridge. “Or cough on him. Get the most out of it, y'know?”

“The hell are you gettin’?” 

“I dunno. ’s new here, isn’t it?”

“I want some too-”

Paul places his carton in George’s hand. Ivan is talking on his phone at the mag stand near the entrance. He produces the empty Tupperware from his bag and makes his way over. 

“ - no, his phone really_ is _ dead, I can send you screenshots. No, he’s not avoidin’ you, at least he never _ said _ he was-”

Paul turns back around. Ivan’d probably want the thing back clean. He stuffs the Tupperware into his bag. He catches Mike staring at him out of the corner of his eye near the sweets shelves. 

“Let’s go. Did you pay yet?” 

“Da packed your lunch?” Mike raises an eyebrow. 

“Yes,” Paul lies, suddenly itching to get home. “Where’s Geo?”

Mike points to the fridges. George and a bloke he doesn’t recognise are laughing together with their fingers smearing up the fridge door’s surface. Painstakingly, he walks over and pinches George on the shoulder. 

“Ow! What?-”

“Mike needs the loo. Hi,” Paul waves to the bloke, whose high, ruffy-scruffy coif scares him a bit now that he’s up close. “Sorry, but I need to steal this one back-“

“ ‘kay. Good game,” says the bloke. He drags a ringed pinky through a noughts and crosses grid on the fridge condensation. “I owe you a coke.”

“You from the art school?” George asks, shrugging his shoulder out of Paul’s hand. Paul turns to glare at Mike across the rows of sweet shelves, _ help me out _, but Mike has eyes on his phone and headphones in. 

aLRIGHT THEN. 

“Seeya outside,” Paul says in his ~friendliest~ tone and tries to look busy. On the topmost shelf of the fridge nearest to him is the last little carton of banana milk. He throws the door open- 

and a flash of an arm brushes his head. Quick as an arrow. It spears the little carton right off the shelf. 

_ “Oi,” _ Paul snaps. “I was gettin’ that-”

He’s met with a cheeky grin from another bloke in a leather jacket, auburn hair also curled. Except this one has no rings and is holding the milk in his infuriating palm. 

“Were you?” 

“Yes,” Paul says, deploying his droopy eyes. It’s his cool face. If the first day back ended with him scrapping with a ted over milk, Da would never let him hear the fuckin’ end of it. He might take away his phone. _ “I _ opened the door, didn’t I?”

The ted blinks at him. Grins. Paul doesn’t flinch, but something in him shifts. 

Then he tears the carton open and swigs from it.

~

Paul drags George and Mike by the sleeves out the tuck shop and halfway down the street before George wrenches himself free and Mike starts cursing. 

“What the hell?” pants Mike. “D’you know that guy?”

“Obviously not,” says Paul. He turns to look at George, who hasn’t said a word. He stares blackly at the direction of the shop. 

“Geo?” 

“I didn’t get me milk!” 

“Oh,” says Paul. “_ Oh _, sorry.”

“What?” Mike asks. He points at Paul. “I thought you were gettin’ the thingy.“

“I handed it to the bloke,” George says sourly. _ “Nameless _ bloke, cause if you’d jus’ _ waited _ like a fuckin’ minute more-”

“Did ya not see what that other one did? He didn’t even pay for the thing!” says Paul. He wonders if he’s _ actually _ taking time to give two shits about some bold milk-chug boy, but fuck it. “He was _ probably _ gonna beat us up,” Paul adds as an afterthought.

~

Paul slams the door behind him. He prances up the stairs, light as feathers. The embarrassment is nothing but life being bullshit and no one can say otherwise. He’s too good and excited for it. 

George stays downstairs with Mike. Paul turns just then, stares impatiently over the railing.

"We're not gettin' any younger here!"

"Yeah yeah," George calls. " 'm just lookin' for nosh-"

"You have five minutes."

_ "You _ calm yer tits."

Paul snorts. He makes a grab for his jotter, full of chords scrawled above lyrics, and checks them again on the websites. He tunes his guitar. In four minutes or so George runs in with his guitar case and usual plate of biscuits, and damn nearly drops it all when he loudly bumps the dustbin near the door. 

"Ah," Paul startles. "Watch yer step-"

George settles down quick, tosses his phone onto the bed. He tunes his guitar while Paul sets up his phone and the tripod. 

"Are we adding the harmonica bit?" George asks. Paul can't get the phone lens to focus right. 

"What?"

"You listened to the whole thing, didn't you? There's this, uh, bit where there's harmonica. Like after the first ‘a thousand miles behind’?"

"No there isn’t,” Paul swings his guitar to his front. 

“There is!”

Shit. “Well, I haven’t _ got _ one.”

George sighs, shoulders drooping. It’s a blaring turning light for Paul to loosen his grip, ply George with more biscuits or whatever else there is. Their pantry is up on stake, and for now it’ll have to do. 

“Say,” Paul stands, opens the bedroom door. “There’s egg mayo down there.”

"No thanks."

~

_ Monday, 21.35 _

**Macca:** hey

**Ivanhoe:** ye

Paul stares at the cursor, mouth puckered. 

_ how was first day? _

_ did you know i couldve punched a ted jn bc he bought the last banana milk before me? _

_ george is mad at me and i deserve it but i REALLY HATE it _

_ da’s been drinking a lot of instant mix and prowling the house early mornings _

_ did u know that bob dylan is a gemini _

**Macca:** i washed your tupperware

i’ll bring it tmr? 

**Ivanhoe:** aww thanks!!!<3

~

Da’s happy as a lark when he gets home from work, humming some number that Paul’s too tired to pick up on. He’s sprawled on the sofa with Mike. They should’ve gone to bed, but Da never protested on them waiting for him on late days, so there. 

"How was school?"

Mike lets out a snore. 

"Okay," says Paul. Da obviously has something up. "How was work?" 

"Oh, _ brilliant. _We got invited to a party!"

"We?"

"We."

Mike's feet find their way into the crevice of Paul's legs. He shifts himself to give Da room on the sofa. 

"What sort of party?" He smiles. 

"So there's this manager at my work, see? She's also the, ah, new pres of the gardeners' club at St Peter's, and they're having another potluck."

Potluck. Paul remembers him and Mam play-fighting in the kitchen, in a year where she was fine and could launch a whole fist of flour at his face. They'd been trying to make either brownies or strudel, but in the end they'd picked up a plain sponge from Asda, filled it with jam and called it theirs. Everyone praised Mary’s_ wonderful touch for flavour, _and she’d laughed so loud.

"Oh?"

"Yes," Da sits down. "And I say, oh of course I'll bring a dish, I've plenty of experience. An' two _ lovely _ boys to help me out-"

"When is this?"

"Next week," Da chuckles. "What's up, a lot on yer plate?"

"No. You finish first."

"So Miss Manager is one of them hostess types, all bout entertaining the peoples."

Paul nods. 

"An' so I volunteer that I've got a boy and his mate who know their way on a guitar."

"Oh! Oh my god!"

Da smiles. "How 'bout it? There's mayhaps twenty-thirty people, their kiddies-"

"Tell her yes!" Paul says, heart on high. But then he remembers George and his black stare. 

Ah. Right. 

~

Money’s slammed on the counter and John trots out of the shop, still swigging his spoil. From the entrance he can spot one, two and three running down the street like getaways, long uniform legs akimbo like they’re escaping a gang fight or a fire. He snorts. 

“What the fuck was that?” Ringo laughs. 

“I scared him,” John wipes the milk from his mouth. “I think.” 

Ringo peers out the entrance but doesn’t step out. “Aww.”

“Fuckin’ kids.”

“Kids,” Ringo nods. He turns back into the shop. 

“Oi, where’re ye going?”

“Puttin’ this back.”

John follows him in. Some of the other uniformed kids look away as he catches up to Ringo, and it fills him with an odd, good air. Ringo’s holding the same banana milk as he is. 

“Not a fan?”

“Of what?”

John shakes his opened carton. 

“Oh,” says Ringo. “Not really.” 

John shrugs. He turns away, takes his phone out, and remembers that it’s dead. He groans. Ringo moves to the counter. 

“Ay,” John calls. “I’m going home.” 

~

Mendips is empty when he comes back, and finally reminded of Mimi coming to pick him up. He plugs his phone into the charger next to the house phone, and dials Mimi. She doesn’t answer. _ Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit _ John chants, until his phone lets out a _ ping _ from where it’s charging on the stand. 

_ Monday, 17.18 _

**Nigel Walley @Quarry**

do you wanna hear the good news or the bad news

**Hanton12 @Quarry**

the bad news

**Nigel Walley @Quarry**

no sorry wait i can't say the bad news first

**Nigel Walley @Quarry**

ok so the good news: st pete just asked us to play again 

**Shotthru the heart @Quarry**

indeed, i have

**Shotthru the heart @Quarry**

wew

**Shotthru the heart @Quarry**

whats the bad news?

**Nigel Walley @Quarry**

they said in this oh so nice email that they’re doing us a ’’’’favour’’’’ by hiring us again 

**Nigel Walley @Quarry**

apparently we’re expensive 

**Hanton12 @Quarry**

wtf we charge like 30 quid

**Hanton12@Quarry**

and SPLIT IT

**Shotthru the heart @Quarry**

uh 

**Shotthru the heart @Quarry**

at least they hired us lol

**Shotthru the heart @Quarry**

thanks walley!!! you're the best ily

**Nigel Walley @ Quarry**

love you too Pete!

**Hanton12 @Quarry**

gross get a rOOM

**Hanton12 @Quarry**

and sorry to be debbie downer but what's the bad news???

**Nigel Walley @Quarry**

oh right.

**Nigel Walley @ Quarry**

they said if we put another no-show, they’ll never hire us again

A voicemail monotone plays out in his ear. John slams his head down on a sofa cushion. He scrolls to the bottom of his phone.

_ Monday, 16.23 _

**Mimistanley: **Hello John. I was on my way but I got a call to attend to something. Call me when you've reached home. I’ll buy things for dinner.

**Mimistanley:** If you want a snack I cut up pears, in the fridge

**Mimistanley: **BRB :)

John lowers his face into the cushion again, and giggles.

~

Ringo’s forgotten most names by the next day and so has John. So lunch hour is just them both in a corner and Ringo’s mother’s bath buns sealed in a lunch pail. 

“She used to work at a local bake,” Ringo says. He seems oddly nervous, and his leg jitterbugs under the table. It’s day two, their lessons are yet to begin and here Ringo’s already bringing home food to calm himself. But John doesn’t blame him. He helps himself to them.

“She’s good.”

Ringo grins. 

“Much better than mine,” John chuckles. “Once I went to dinner at her place and she’d poured tea in the stew.”

“She sounds fun, your mum.”

“Very much.”

John keeps an eye on the time. The initiation refuses to let them rest up until John breaks for the toilet on his way to meet the Art Therapist. It’s her only free period, so the email states, and he hates the title. No one else has her, he _ knows _why he has her, and isn’t sure whether he wants to scream-laugh or just scream.

Also- was she a doctor? Or an artist? These people were supposed to be in community clubs and hospitals, not a college full of bad jubies. 

As the lift stops on her floor John’s unbelievably tired. He checks the schedule. The classroom is on a floor he's never been to, not during the open house tour, and down a hallway as _ specially _indicated on his fresh-from-the-Head schedule. It's the only door at the end of a hallway. It's a very Alice moment right then- the movie, at that, where she's down on her knees and peering through the doorknob's huge keyhole mouth. He stands upright and knocks on the door .

No one opens it immediately, and he hears no footsteps coming. There's a card scanner on the wall next to the frame, but he hasn't gotten a card yet. He raises his hand to knock again, when the door opens to a large, fully white room. And standing in the doorway is her.

John blinks very fast. She's barely taller than he is, her face framed by two curtains of straight black. Her spine is a ruler that takes a nice form in her dark outfit, standing on bare, clean feet. 

"Hello," she says. Her voice is tiny, pretty like an unfurling flower in spring water. 

"Hello," John nods. She hasn't moved at all. "I'm, uh,_ you're _ Miss Ono, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, good, I'm John." 

"I know, John," she smiles, and steps to the side. John hesitantly toes off his shoes, sneaking glances to check if he should, but she makes no comment. 

Yoko, she whispers as he steps in with his holey socks, has an impeccable studio with a messy desk full of paper. The only other things are a half-drunk cola bottle, her stool and a tote bag. He doesn’t spot another chair around for him. John makes it a point not to stare at anything too long- before his eyes fall on the sculptures. They occupy the wall at the back and are blink-and-you-won’t-miss-it kind of things. He moves closer, waits for her to call him back, but she doesn’t. He picks a ladder that leads to a speck of something on the ceiling. 

“Is there something up there?”

“Of course.”

“What is it?”

“You want to see it?”

He nods. In a gentle sweep she moves him forwards to the ladder, and he notices the spyglass hanging next to it. John tries a smile and climbs till he’s near the ceiling. He leans in with the glass, squinting and holding on tight-

On the ceiling is the word _ yes. _

_ Yes! _

_ Yessss. _

_ Yes, John- _

_ Yes?! _

_ Yes. _

“What kind of doctor _ are _ you?” John asks, breathless. 

“I’m not a doctor.”

"Um," He starts descending the ladder. "You have the word _ therapist _in your job? Why am I here?”

“I think you know.” 

John feels something in him turn very hot, and then very cold. “Look, I didn’t ask for this class-”

“And I didn’t ask to teach this class,” she replies swiftly. “I’m here because you are here.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry to hear about your mother, John.”

Bingo. The whole school knew of his business. And they had _ paid _someone to help him with it.

“Shit.”

“I agree,” Yoko says. “She was young.”

John stares at her. In a moment half his words turn meaningless and he’s gaining awareness of his own breathing again. His hand clutches one of the metal rungs and the floor is a pad of cool under his socks. 

Through all this Yoko lifts her own chair from her desk, brings it over and sits in front of him, an arm’s width apart. 

“Should I, uh,” John sinks to the floor, cross-legged. 

She nods. “Tell me how you find college so far.” 

~

Paul catches George on the bus the next day, scribbling in a jotter. He flips it shut the second Paul sits next to him. 

“What.”

“Mornin’.”

George looks away, cold. “I can’t practise today,” he starts. “Ma wants help with the cleanin’.” 

Paul shifts his bag onto his lap. George hasn’t been _ this _ pissed since the time they kissed to win a Spin the Bottle. He hadn’t spoken to Paul for a week. It’d taken an excruciatingly embarrassing deep talk, pudding cups bought from his pocket, and many big hugs to fix that. Some days he worries that it's not quite as fixed as he thinks.

“ ‘s all good, all good,” Paul says, almost like a lilt. 

_ “Is _it?”

“We got a hire offer.”

“We- we what?”

“We got an offer to perform,” Paul says excitedly. “An’ its a _proper_ do! St. Peter’s next week-”

“Arsehole.”

Paul draws back. “What’s up with you?”

“Next week?! What’re we supposed ta do? We barely know any full songs.”

“We can do your Dylan piece,” Paul says quickly. 

“Is that all we have to do?”

Paul tries to remember. He scratches his chin.

“You’ve already said yes,” George says, not asks. 

“............................yes.”

_ “Fuck _you.”

“I’m sorry,” Paul clasps his own hand. “Think of it this way, yeah? A… _ challenge! _ An’ I thought the challenge would be good for you an’ me, y’know? Hone our skills an’ all, yknow? I understand if you don’t want to, I can-”

“I’ll be there by six,” George crosses his arms. “After cleanin’.”

Paul blinks. He lets out a laugh of relief and drops his head on George’s shoulder gratefully. “Oh, you _ do _ love me!”

“You’re _ damn _ lucky I do!”

“I am!” 

~

Mimi’s standing at the main gate when the day lets out, handbag in the crook of her arm. John slaps Ringo’s back with a promise to text, and strides up to her as casually as possible. 

“Thought you’d call,” John says. “Or somethin’.”

“I was about to,” she replies, even though she most probably wasn’t. She hated her phone, and it hated her. Sometimes she got locked out of it for hours. “I was thinking you an’ I-”

“I don’t need new clothes.”

“Who said anything about that? I was thinkin' Baskin Robbins.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“You’ve started a new chapter in life,” she says. “I think we should celebrate, no?”

Yes. Yessss. YES, IT’S ICE-CREAM!

“What ‘bout dinner?” John smirks. 

Mimi, one in a blue million, smirks back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dug up my own copy of alice to check that the peering-through-the-mouth thing is exclusive to the movie and NOT the book, because i figure that this John would know the differences. 
> 
> anywho, I appreciate feedback, so please do let me know if you enjoy this or what you think! :>


End file.
